Guilty Pleasure
by thedragonaunt
Summary: Molly has a guilty pleasure and Sherlock is not happy about it - AT ALL! This is a gift to all the Kitchen Ladies and a special gift to the lovely Benedict Cumberbatch, even though I know he will never read it. Happy Birthday Benedict! I LOVE YOU!


**Disclaimer – I don't own the characters. They belong to ACD, MG and SM and the BBC. No one pays me to do this, I do it for love.**

**Guilty Pleasure**

**by**

**thedragonaunt**

'Molly?'

'Hmm?'

'What are you doing?'

'Nothing.'

Sherlock pursed his lips.

Molly had been sitting at the kitchen table, tapping on her laptop, since he came through from putting the boys to bed. Assuming she was doing something work related, he had left her alone and laid on the sofa, in his customary thinking pose, with eyes closed and hands in the prayer position, under his chin.

He addressed his thoughts to the cold case that he was currently reviewing for the Met. He knew that this was a simple case of embezzlement. The perpetrator was obviously the office janitor. He had means – a degree in Computer Science from a top US university (no one had bothered to check his education, only his work history). He had motive – he was on a very low basic level wage. He had opportunity – he was alone in the office, with access to all those computers, for hours every night. So, yes, the system had been 'hacked' but not by some random outsider. Case closed.

However, throughout his musings, he had been aware of intermittent squeaks and giggles emanating from the kitchen. Whatever Molly was doing in there, it wasn't to do with work. Pathology did not normally provide so much amusement. He tapped the tips of his fingers together and then rose, in one smooth fluid motion, from the sofa, and strode into the kitchen, to stand impatiently on the opposite side of the table.

Molly looked up and met his enquiring gaze.

'You are clearly NOT doing nothing, Molly,' he huffed.

'I'm web chatting,' she replied, with an air of defiance.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, derisively.

'Oh, good lord, you're on that actor's fan site, aren't you? The one you insist, quite erroneously, looks like me? The one with the ridiculous name?'

Molly looked affronted. He had some nerve, calling someone else's name ridiculous!

'Sherlock, I don't make fun of your obsessive pursuit of nine million different types of cigarette ash,' she retorted.

It was Sherlock's turn to be affronted.

'That is an egregious exaggeration and a gross misrepresentation of the facts. It is not an obsession, it is scientific enquiry. And it is only 246 different types of cigarette ash.'

'Well, whatever it is, I don't make derogatory comments about it,' Molly reiterated.

'But in what way can that possibly compare with your adolescent devotion to this jumped up, ex-public school Thespian nancy-boy, who spends his frivolous life prancing about on stage or on the TV, wearing make-up and silly costumes, pretending to be someone he isn't?'

Molly burst out laughing.

'Sherlock, are you jealous?' she guffawed.

'Don't be absurd!' he snorted, drawing himself up to his full height, in a posture of righteous indignation. 'I would just like us to be able to spend some time together, in the evenings. After all, it is the only time we have to ourselves.'

The pouting bottom lip did nothing to dispel Molly's suspicions of the true cause of his scathing outburst.

Her facial expression softened and she held out a hand towards him, in a gesture of reconciliation.

'It's just my guilty pleasure,' she moued.

He reached across the table and took her hand, then leaned forward and dropped a light kiss into her palm, whilst fixing her with an intense, seductive gaze.

'Well, if it's guilty pleasure you're after….' he murmured

Molly felt the skin of her throat and chest flush, as the heat from his touch spread throughout her body. She swallowed hard.

'Just give me a minute to sign off,' she breathed, acutely aware of the husky undertone to her voice.

He released her hand and stood back, but did not break eye contact. It was she who did, to look down at the screen of her laptop and type, hurriedly,

'Sorry, ladies, have to dash. Something's come up – or rather, is about to!'

She went to press 'Post Reply' then, remembering the occasion for all the hilarity that had so irritated her significant other, she resumed typing.

'Great virtual party, peeps. Hope the lovely man is having at least as much fun! Happy Birthday, Benedict! Xxxxx.'

ooOoo


End file.
